


freedom (bound and restricted)

by wecanpretend



Series: benevolence by any means necessary [3]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Intercrural Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, literally just thighfucking i ain't even sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 06:16:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8653936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wecanpretend/pseuds/wecanpretend
Summary: Credence would love the absolution of being able to say that he didn’t know how he got here.The truth is, he does know.After all, he asked, didn’t he?





	

**Author's Note:**

> INTERCRURAL SEX because the power dynamics between Credence and Graves are SO GOOD for this and also I want it, so there. follow me [on tumblr](http://letmercy.tumblr.com) for pretty much exclusively gradence content. I don't blog about much else there yet, though that might change! we just don't know.
> 
> Title of this one comes from "Time is Running Out" by Muse.

Credence would love the absolution of being able to say that he didn’t know how he got here.

The truth is, he does know.

After all, he asked, didn’t he?

He reached out to Graves and pulled him back when he would have gone away and asked for more, please more, anything so long as he didn’t leave. They had already been breathless from kissing. Credence would be feeling his teeth and mouth for days, in the tingling, swollen skin of his lips and neck. But, headblind with the heat overwhelming every sense, Credence wanted more. So much more.

Enough to stave off the chill already sinking in. Enough to keep the knowledge that he will be ashamed of this, of all his needs and desires, at bay. Credence wanted to feel _good_ , and being with Graves made him feel _good_ and _great_ and like God himself might have a hand in delivering Credence good things after everything else. Even if Credence thinks of those things late at night and kneels on the cold floor until his knees are hurting for the next few days while sin boils him from the inside out.

And Graves had examined him for a few heavy moments before laying his hand along the trembling curve of Credence’s neck. His thumb brushed the outline of his skull, gentle and sweeping and warm. Credence felt his pulse everywhere, high in his throat, beneath Graves’ palm, between his legs, in the deep curl of shame and fear in his stomach.

Graves nodded.

“All you had to do, Credence, was ask,” he said, and the relief had almost been enough to bury everything else.

And now he’s crowded into an apartment he doesn’t know, Graves’ mouth on his neck. Credence clutches the lapels of Grave’s coat, needy, weak. He wants to give himself over. He wants to not think at all, and to that purpose, he surrenders, going lax and willing in Graves’ arms.

Graves pulls back, breathing hard. It is startlingly loud, and Credence becomes aware of the soft whines he has been letting out with every exhale. His hands on Credence are clutching, possessive. Credence is warm where they are, because he’s wanted. Graves wants him, here and now, Credence is _wanted_.

A thigh slips between his legs. Credence lets them fall further apart until he is straddling Graves’ leg. Graves presses it higher, higher. Until the evidence of Credence’s enjoyment of the attention is evident, throbbing against Graves’ firm muscles through thin layers of cloth. Credence tries to move away, but he can’t. Graves’ hand is at the small of his back, urging him closer in short, rocking motions that draw ever louder noises from his mouth.

Credence, head tilted to the side, can’t seem to stop himself. Even when the guidance of Graves’ hand leaves, shifts to the front of his hips, he continues the wanton, indulgent moves. Unwilling to stop. Unable, almost, the impulse coming from a direction Credence can’t guard against.

And then he stops.

“Over here,” Graves murmurs, stepping away. Credence follows him before the words even finish, loath to let the contact cease completely. Even this small loss leaves him unwhole, broken and aware of all the cracks and treacherous holes in him, filled with an endless dark that Graves’ touch banishes.

He is led, not to a bedroom, but just over to a table. Graves smiles, faint, kisses Credence’s mouth with a strange sort of tenderness before he turns Credence around. Hands slide down his shoulders, down his arms, guiding him to rest his fists on the table.

“Keep these here,” Graves says, close in his ear.

Credence nods. Gets a kiss on his neck for his trouble, and even that sets him to shaking.

A hand creeps further down. Credence arches, towards it, away from it, he’s not sure, but it continues regardless, undoing his belt and sliding inside to the hot center of his entire body, all of his focus narrowed to this single point. Graves’ hand curls against him, around him, in ways that Credence has never even dared to do himself. Heat and electricity and every terrible, maelstrom within him curl, white-hot, in the center of his stomach, shooting down his quivering legs and-

-it stops.

Graves moves his hand away, and Credence practically sobs at its loss, until he feels his pants shifting, fabric falling to bunch his knees.

“Sweet boy,” Graves says, and Credence’s heart catches at the rasp in his voice, the sound alone lighting a fire in his veins that he knows hours kneeling in church cannot quell. He did that. He made Graves sound so undone. So aroused, by him, _for_ him. “Press your thighs together for me.”

And shaking, Credence does. He would do anything, will do anything, this man asks of him. His hands curl on the table, the edge pressed hard into the heel of his palms. And then, nothing happens. Credence stands there, legs pressed tightly together from knee to hip, so hard he’s quivering, hands fisted before him as shame and need twine together in his stomach. There is a sound, behind him. The clink of a belt.

Credence cannot quite stop his instinctive flinch.

“Shh, shh,” Graves whispers immediately, close to his ear. He strokes Credence’s waist, fingers dipping lingeringly into the crevice of his hips, palms him soothingly, and Credence immediately arches into it, chasing every moment of contact with a desperation that startles him. That hand stays there, the other coming up to rest in its spot on his neck, the angle odd when Graves is behind him, but comforting nonetheless. “Stay still now.”

And god help him, he does.

A touch, soft, hot, between his legs.

A push.

Graves slides his dick between Credence’s thighs, and Credence’s breath catches at the sensation, the electric zing of skin against so much skin, even as Graves’ hand around the back of his neck tightens. It’s softer than he was expecting, but it rocks him forward, stutters his heartbeat, makes him ache for things he doesn’t have names for. Credence shudders, groaning quietly as the head of Graves’ cock nudges against his balls, at the soft skin directly behind, so rarely touched that everything is magnified tenfold.

For the first few thrusts, it’s warm, then uncomfortable as the friction grows. Graves mutters something under his breath, and Credence startles when the next thrust is smooth, the crevice of his thighs suddenly slick. He pushes back into the motion, intrigued, burning, and is rewarded with a low groan, the heavy press of Graves’ body against his own.

He looks down. His clothes are all askew, rumpled and pushed aside, and down, further, his own erection startles him, hard and flushed and bobbing with the motions behind him. In time with the sight of the head of Graves’ cock appearing between his thighs, slick and glistening. Something Credence will not, cannot, forget, nor the shudder and heat that rocks through him. Not now, not for all his days.

White liquid dribbles from his own erection in a small jerk, Credence’s thighs pressing together even more, and Graves groans.

Graves’ hand moves to the front of his throat. Credence can feel every crease in his hand like something well-worn and loved, and he follows its urging backwards, shifting unwillingly from watching how Graves is fucking him, his cock appearing and disappearing.

“Keep your hands on the table,” Graves says, and Credence stops.

Swallows, every inch of the motion felt even more as his throat works against Graves’ hand. But he nods and arches his back, like a bridge, like the crescent moon, all so his hands can be flat on the wood, his throat pulled back by Graves, the backs of his thighs against Graves too as his cock pushes between, nudges the soft skin of his perineum. Three points of contact, all of them stability gifted by Graves. He pushes, just a bit, enough that he feels the moment Graves surges forward, growls.

“Good boy.”

Credence gasps, breath clicking, and the aborted sound breaks out louder as Graves sets his teeth into the junction of Credence’s neck and shoulder. All he is, everything he is, has been given to him by Graves. He is a good boy, he is, he _is_ , especially right now, with Graves’ dick working between his thighs, one hand on Credence’s throat and the other pressed, flat not curling, against Credence’s own erection. A tease, a reminder, Credence doesn’t quite know, but he rocks into it regardless. Rocks back, wanting-

 _Wanting_.

 _God_ , he wants.

He wants this, forever, to be here, to be good for Graves, to be held like this. He’s doing such a good job, keeping his thighs tight together to feel every thrust, from the sensitive skin along his perineum to the tops of his thighs, Graves’ feel set into his shoulder like a brand. Like he’s something desirable to be owned. The heat and lightning are back, in his lungs and heart. Credence hears himself moaning again, loud, and he doesn’t think he could hold them back if he tried.

All it takes, in the end, is a simple, proprietorial growl of “Mine,” from Graves, his hand almost painfully tight on Credence’s cock.

Everything uncoils in an explosive burst of pleasure greater than anything Credence has ever known. He’s aware, distantly, of Graves speeding up, of a new, warm slickness coating his thighs and the table in front of him, but his world is narrowed to how wanted he feels.

How loved.

That’s it.

That’s all he has left in him.

He falls forward, onto the table, and his arms are not strong enough to brace himself up, so down he goes. Graves’s hand travels from his neck to press between his shoulder blades. Not firmly, just… there.

Credence feels safe here.

Like this.

Safe, and warm, and loved, even as he pants out his labored breaths onto the bare wood beneath his cheek. All the world has fallen away, narrowed to the bright stretches of contact between him and Graves.

Touch.

Pull.

He is urged upwards, Credence gathering his strength to lift himself with weak, trembling arms, Graves’ hand strong across his middle. A hand on his shoulder, and Graves turns him around, looks down with something approaching satisfaction at the spread of his legs, the mess between his thighs. Credence draws his knees closer together, shame and guilt and desire clamoring in a tumultuous heap in his stomach now that his blood has cooled and his mind has returned to him, but he is stopped by Graves before he can hide. Encouraged open, even, by the hand pressing firmly on his knee and inner thigh. The touch is warm, possessive, greedy, all for him.

All for Credence.

He shivers and allows it.

“What a good boy,” Graves says, sliding his hand through the mess of semen and sweat and that slick, unfamiliar substance on his legs. “I wish I could just leave you all messy like this, so anyone who looked would know you have someone you belong to.”

Credence can’t breathe with the force of wanting that rocks through him.

He is sent off with a hand to the back of his skull, deposited in that same, snap-sick fashion that Graves always uses as transportation. Magic, Apparition, he said, and Credence hopes to one day also hold Graves close and take him along somewhere special. Graves crowds into him again, gentle down to his last touch.

“Soon,” he says, “that can be something that happens every day, should you desire it. You know what you must do.”

The child. Right. He must, in order to feel this every day. In order to be wanted. He understands. Credence nods, and Graves smiles.

“Good boy.”

And he leaves, like a phantom, like a dream except for how Credence can still feel the aftershocks coursing through his blood. He breathes in, and goes inside.

Later that night, Credence comes into the church with his head bowed already, avoiding his Ma’s ire as much as possible. Dinner has passed, the children settling in for the night, and even Ma’s steps have silenced finally. Credence kneels behind one of the pews, the floor cold and hard on his knees, and as he folds his hands together in front of him, he pretends that this will be enough to stop the wanting.

“Oh Father, who art in Heaven,” he begins.

(It won’t.

It never is.

Credence will do this until the dawn breaks or his voice does, whichever comes first. And the whole while, he anticipates the next time he gets to see Graves. Gets to have his hand on his neck, and gets to know that he is doing things right for once. That someone, somewhere, is proud of him and _wants_ him. The desire is a smoldering dark flame within him, banked for now, until Graves arrives to fan it into an inferno again.

And Credence will gladly burn.)


End file.
